Beauty and the Highland Beast
Page 26
Yes. She’d practiced saying it in her mind, over and over. Such a simple word, but now that the time had come to speak it aloud it caught in her throat.
“Well, lass? What do ye say?” David prompted. She looked at his mouth. His lips were thin, a little chapped. She had a salve for that, something to soothe them . . . Was that really all she could think of? She didn’t wonder what it would be like to kiss him, didn’t feel her heart flip or her belly tighten with need at the idea of being held in his arms. She swallowed.
“I wish to say—”
“Fia.”
His voice went through her like a sword slash. She spun, almost toppled. Dair Sinclair was standing behind her. He caught her arm to steady her, and lightning flowed through her limbs. Ah, there was the desire, like liquid fire, familiar and sweet. “Are you a ghost?” she whispered.
She heard the bench creak as David MacKay rose to his feet. “Who’s this?”
Her heart raced. If David could see Dair, then that proved he wasn’t a ghost. He was really here, as dark and braw as she remembered. She noted the fine plaid, the brooch, the bonnet set with three eagle’s feathers. He looked magnificent, powerful, and handsome beyond words. His eyes hadn’t left her face, nor had he let go of her arm. She looked into those eyes, as deep and gray as the waters of Sinclair Bay. There was no madness there. There was hope, and something else, something that took her breath away, made her nipples peak and her hand curl into the wool of her skirt.
She wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that poured through her, for the surprise of him, alive and whole, standing in her father’s hall. Air rushed past her ears, and the world tilted under her feet. She’d spent the night pacing the floor, considering things. She hadn’t eaten, should have slept. And now . . .
“You’re here,” she managed to say, and then the world went black.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Donal frowned. For the second time, a chief of the Sinclairs had walked into his hall, uninvited and unexpected, and set the whole place on its ear. Despite the scars on his face, Alasdair Og Sinclair looked as chiefly as his father had, and the clansmen with him looked extraordinarily pleased to see Fia. They only had eyes for her this time, though his other lasses did their best to steal the attention. Every man in the room had rushed forward when Fia fainted, but Alasdair Og was the one who caught her, swept her up against his chest, and saved her from falling to the floor.
Donal frowned at the man’s audacity. The Sinclairs had rudely interrupted a moment sure to make him the happiest of fathers. Fia had been about to accept David MacKay. One lass wed—or as good as—and only eleven to go. But now the Sinclair was holding Fia like she belonged to him, and Donal didn’t like that one bit. Nor, by the looks of it, did David MacKay, though he stood like a great thick caber and gaped at the Sinclair chief without saying a word. It was Donal who strode forward and took his daughter’s limp body into his own arms. “What do you mean, marching in here, frightening my daughter?” he demanded.
Alasdair Og removed his bonnet. His clansmen did likewise. “I’ve come to ask for your blessing to marry Fia.”
“What?” David MacKay spoke at last, his eyes popping, and the four other MacKays growled their disapproval. “You can’t,” David said. “She’s betrothed to me.”
Donal winced. Fia hadn’t actually said yes. He looked down at her, still insensible in his arms. She was getting heavy. Meggie plucked at his sleeve. “Papa, I need to tell you something,” she whispered.
But the Sinclairs were glaring at the MacKays, and it looked like a battle was about to begin in his hall.
“Is this true?” Alasdair Og asked. “Is she betrothed?”
“Papa,” Meggie whispered again. Donal shook her off and raised his chin.
“Yes. Well, more or less.” He looked at David MacKay. The lad looked baffled, and as big and daft as a bull.
“Papa!” Meggie wailed.
Donal shifted Fia—it was awkward, holding his daughter, trying to have a sensible conversation and make a very serious decision. The burden, so to speak, for his daughter’s welfare and future happiness lay with him, both as her father and as head of her clan.
He looked at the two men before him. In his own heart, he preferred David MacKay. He wasn’t a pirate or a laird o’ the seas. And he wasn’t mad as far as Donal could see, or chief of a clan with the devil’s own reputation for trouble. David’s plain face and figure spoke of sober good sense, a safe, solid, quiet life, while Alasdair Og was brash, unpredictable, and bold. Donal looked down at Fia. He couldn’t imagine his sweet, gentle lass wanting to be the wife of such a man. Why, just one look at the Sinclair had sent her into a swoon. Nay, she was still fragile, clumsy, and fey, though she’d shown a measure of steel in her makeup of late. He hadn’t the slightest idea how she felt about either of her suitors, and since she was insensible . . . He paused, considered, and the room was silent around him, the crowd of MacKays, Sinclairs, and MacLeods all staring at him, waiting for his decision.
“I choose David MacKay.”
The MacKays cheered. The Sinclairs stood silent. Alasdair Og flushed scarlet but didn’t move a muscle.
“Oh, Papa, no!” Meggie cried. He glared at her.
Fia chose that moment to wake. Her eyes opened, focused slowly on her father. “Dair,” she murmured, and Donal knew at once he’d made the wrong choice. His heart sank. Still, he’d spoken. He couldn’t unsay it now.
“David,” he corrected her. “I’ve given your answer, lass. You’ll wed David MacKay.”
Pain swept through her eyes. It hit Donal like a blow. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”
He set her down, kept one hand around her waist to steady her. She looked about her, pale as a shroud, and her eyes met Alasdair Og’s. He took a step toward her, and she reached out her hand. Donal grabbed her wrist, pulled her back. “I have made my choice.”
“But it was not Fia’s choice,” Meggie said. “She loves Dair, Papa.” The Sinclairs nodded. Meggie went to stand among them, her arms crossed over her chest. Her sisters joined her, glaring at him, their laird and father.
Hot frustration rose up the back of Donal’s neck. “What do you know of it? I’m the laird of this clan. I know what’s best for my own flesh and blood, don’t I?”
“She can’t marry David MacKay,” Isobel said.
“Of course not,” Gillian agreed.
“I really can’t, Papa,” Fia said, her eyes pleading with him to change his mind. But the MacKays were grinning, celebrating. To reverse himself now would make Donal look weak and foolish.
“Ye’ll marry David,” he insisted. The look Fia gave him now was so fierce that it shocked him.
“No, I won’t.” she said. “’Tis Dair I want, Papa.”
A rebellion, in his own castle, before guests? Donal couldn’t stand for that. He had his pride. “You’ll do as I say, Fia MacLeod, and until you’re willing, ye’ll go to the tower to think about your responsibility to your laird and father.” He summoned two of his clansmen, who’d been standing watching the scene with interest. They were probably wagering on the outcome. “Take her up and lock her in,” Donal commanded.
He watched as they took her away, lifting her like a child by the elbows so she wouldn’t stumble on the stairs. She glared at him over her shoulder as she went, mutinous and angry, two spots of hectic color in her cheeks now, defiance written clearly in every line of her wee body. He could hardly believe this was his sweet, biddable, gentle daughter.
“Oh, Papa.” Meggie’s tone was withering now.
Alasdair Og’s eyes never left Fia. Donal’s breath caught. Would he fight for her? He hadn’t moved from where he was standing.
Donal’s daughters descended upon him, chattering, pinching, pushing, and insisting he was wrong.
“Wrong?” he roared. “Wrong? I am the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair, and I am never, ever wrong!”
The girls fell silent. The MacKays stopped celebrating. The Sincl
airs stood at attention, dignified in defeat, and Alasdair Og Sinclair regarded the now-empty staircase with a flat, chiefly expression, the look of a man who was not used to being told no. Donal could see the tension in the Sinclair’s jaw, and his knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword. It was the look of a man who loved a woman so fiercely he’d do anything to have her.
Donal’s guts curled. Ach Dhia, he was most definitely wrong this time, but he’d spoken now. He should make the Sinclairs leave. And what would Alasdair Og do then?
“You may stay the night, Sinclair,” he said instead. “’Tis a long journey back to Carraig Brigh, and it looks like rain.”
With that, he left the room, and hoped that somehow everything would turn out right.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Even imprisonment in the tower couldn’t diminish Fia’s joy. Dair was alive. She had no idea why he was here, since she’d fainted dead away like a ninny, and her father had said yes to David MacKay while she lay in a swoon.
It was disaster. She could not marry David, but if she did not, she might well spend the rest of her life locked in this tower, alone, pining for Dair. Her father was a stubborn man. Well, so was she. She sat on the edge of the cot and waited. And waited some more.
Cold seeped from the ancient stone walls, made her teeth chatter. She felt the old familiar dread she hadn’t felt since childhood creep into her bones. Her own ghosts had haunted her here, in this room where she’d spent long weeks of pain and nightmares as a child. She felt a flutter of panic rise in her breast. Her mother’s death hadn’t been her fault. She should have told her father long ago what really happened. She crossed the room and tugged on the door latch. It was locked tight by her father’s order. She had to get out, find him, tell him the truth, convince him she wasn’t daft or fey. She knew her mind, and her heart. She wanted—
Fia spun as the shutters burst open with a crash. A dark figure swung through the window on a rope and landed on the floor at her feet.
“Dair!” she cried, and he gave her a pirate grin and bowed low.
“At your service, mistress.”
“How—” She pointed to the window. “It’s forty feet down!”
“If a pirate can’t win what he wants, he steals it. Or so they say. Forty feet is nothing. I’ve climbed the rigging and masts of ships all my life, lass, though never for anything so important as this,” he said.
She threw herself into his arms, her pirate, her Laird o’ the Seas, her lover, and kissed him.
After a long moment he put a finger under her chin. “They told me you were dead, Fia,” he said.
She ran her hands over his arms, his shoulders, his face. He was warm, alive, and whole. “I was, when they told me you were missing.” She stood on her toes and kissed him again. “I’ve never been more alive than in this moment.”
He resisted her kisses, held her at arm’s length. “David MacKay is a good man, Fia.”
She blinked at him. “Of course he is.”
“He’d make a fine husband, and the MacKays are honorable folk.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” she said, sliding her palms over the familiar, beloved planes of his chest.
He stepped out of reach altogether. “Do you wish to marry him?”
She advanced on him, put her arms around his waist. “David MacKay is strong, and kind, and pleasant company. But he’s meant for some other lass, not me. I want a pirate who will climb the tallest tower and come through a window to see me, someone bold, daring, and brash, a man who makes a lass feel like a princess when he holds her in his arms, loves her . . .”
He pulled her close, held her against his heart. “I love you, Fia MacLeod. If you had not come to Carraig Brigh . . .” He swallowed. “You saved me, brought me back from a living hell, made me live again.”
“And I love you. You are like breath to me, like light, but I didn’t heal you. You were never mad,” she whispered. “You were just lost and grieving.” She kissed him, and for a long moment neither one of them spoke. He finally broke the kiss.
“Ach, lass, you distract me from my purpose.” He dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me? You fainted before I could ask you properly.”
Her heart opened like a rose blooming. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Yes, of course I will.”
He grinned at her. “Can you forgive the Sinclairs, feel safe and at home among us again? Logan is gone, and Father Alphonse has returned to France. No one will harm you, and no one believes you’re a—” She put her finger against his lips.
“The Sinclairs are good folk, like their chief. There’s nothing that would keep me from—” She frowned. “Oh no—you’ll have to steal me after all. We’ll have to run away, elope. Once Papa has made up his mind about something, it stays made up. It will be impossible to change it. We’ll have to wed first, hope for his forgiv—”
He got to his feet, cut her off with a kiss. “Did I mention your sisters are on our side? Fia, if ever I’m in a fight, I want the daughters of the Fearsome MacLeod guarding my back.”
“What does that mean?” she murmured.
He didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the cot. She fell with him, marveling once more at how perfectly her body fit to his, as if they’d been made for one another and no one else. He nuzzled her throat, stroked her face, and began to untie the laces of her gown, pulling the linen aside to kiss her shoulder.
“I predict your father’s going to change his mind. Very soon, in fact.” He kissed her deeply, and she arched into him. “God, Fia, I want you,” he said, nibbling on her ear. “From the moment I walked into your father’s hall, all I could think about was kissing you like this, bedding you, loving you.”
She put her hand between their bodies, cupped his erection through his plaid. “So I see. Shall we do something about it?”
He groaned and grabbed her hand, stilling it. “Aye, Fia, och, aye, but wait, lass, wait—”
She heard the key rattle in the lock and gasped, tried to sit up. “Oh no, it’s my father! Can you climb out a window as easily as you climbed in? At least hide under the bed, or—” But Dair didn’t move. He kissed her gently and gave her a smile so sweet it melted her heart. “Don’t worry, mo ruin. Your sisters suggested this, by the way.” He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it.
“No! What are you doing?” she asked. She reached for his shirt, pushing her hair out of her eyes at the same time—when had it come loose from the ribbons and pins? It spilled over the disarray of her open bodice. Dair grinned at her and kissed her again as the door swung open.
“What am I doing, sweetheart? I’m convincing your father to let me wed you, pirate-style.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The door hit the wall with a bang that shook the whole tower, and the Fearsome MacLeod strode in, the great bloodstained claymore of his ancestors clutched in his fists. He took in the scene slowly. It was exactly as Meggie had told him—the Sinclair stood by the bed, half naked, and Fia—well. One look at her kiss-swollen lips, her scarlet cheeks, and the fact that she was holding Sinclair’s shirt over her half-laced bodice, told the tale.
Donal’s nostrils flared. His chest heaved, and fury overwhelmed him. With an oath he raised the claymore and pointed it at Dair. The man didn’t move a muscle. “Do ye dare to debauch my daughter under my own roof? Her sister predicted I’d find ye here, Sinclair, but I didna believe it. Have ye no honor at all?”
Fia was on her feet in an instant, stepping between Dair and her father. “Papa, no!”
He glared at her. “Fiona Margaret MacPhail MacLeod, I have just one question before I strike his head off his shoulders. Do you love him?”
Fia blinked. “Yes, Papa, I do love him, with my whole heart. I’m sorry, but I can’t marry David MacKay.”
Donal didn’t lower the blade even one inch. “And do you love my daughter, Sinclair?”
Dair’s eyes were on Fia as he replied, “Aye, I love her. More than life.”
“Oh, Papa, I’m so happy,” she said. He hugged her back for a moment.
“Give the man back his shirt, lass, and go—I’ve things to discuss with the Sinclair, and I’ve no doubt your sisters are waiting to hear every detail while they help you dress.”
She stopped to kiss Alasdair Og before she hurried out, her face so radiant it almost brought tears to Donal’s eyes.
Her sisters were indeed waiting for her.
“Well?” Meggie asked eagerly.
“I’m a bride,” Fia managed before she burst into happy tears. Her sisters began to chatter like birds and bore her along to their chamber. The bathtub was already filled with scented, steaming water, and a beautiful blue silk gown hung over the door of the wardrobe, waiting for her.
Fia stared. She crossed the room and looked at the dress, ran her hand over the soft satin. It was lavishly embroidered with thistles and heather around the hem. “Papa chose the gown, Fia, ordered it aired out and made ready for you. He said something about fairy bells. What on earth does that mean?”
Fia smiled. She understood exactly what it meant. “It means I am the happiest, most fortunate—” She felt something bump against her shin and looked down to find Bel grinning up at her with a feline smile. She bent to lift him but he hurried away.
“Bel?”
“Angel had her kittens this morning,” Jennet said. “Five of them, all lasses. She chose the wardrobe as her nursery.”
Fia opened the door of the cupboard, and Bel stood by as Fia admired the kittens and patted their proud mother. “It looks like we all have something to celebrate today,” she said.
“We do indeed,” Isobel said. “Meggie told us everything. How romantic!”
Fia shot Meggie a look. Everything? Meggie grinned. “There’s no keeping a secret from a MacLeod lass.”